Finding Hope
by marvelandimagine
Summary: A member of the Avengers, the reader is struggling with depression and self harm but the rest of the team is oblivious, assuming that her "emo" outer appearance is just a phase and not a manifestation of mental illness. The truth is finally revealed, however, and the team does their best to support her.


"Good job, team! Much better than last run," Steve yelled out with a smile. You plopped down onto the ground and began packing your stuff as quickly as you could. You and the rest of the Avengers had just finished up a particularly intense training session that you knew was going to leave you hurting for the rest of the night and into the next day. Not only were your muscles shot from all of the sprints, jumps, dodging and sliding, but using your powers to manipulate atmospheric electricity for so long was extremely taxing. You tried not to compare yourself to the other members of the team who had been training together much longer, but watching them work so effortlessly and confidently always left you feeling hopelessly out of place and inferior.

You looked down at your shaking hands with a sigh. "I used to have such steady hands, but now I can't keep them from shaking," you sang quietly to yourself as you zipped up your backpack. "What was that, Sparks?," Natasha asked you, using the nickname you had been given by Clint on your first day with the team. "Nothing," you replied quickly. Just a Wonder Years song."

"Ugh, you and your whiny sad excuse for rock music," Tony jeered out, rolling his eyes. You smiled, but felt your heart sink a little; attacking the music you loved almost felt like an attack on who you were. After all, who could understand your pain better than your favorite bands? "Hey, you don't hear me calling you out for still listening to Sabbath, old man," you teased. "HOW DARE YOU TAKE THE NAME OF SABBATH IN VAIN?!" Tony yelled, his eyes widening dramatically as he placed a hand over his arc reactor. You gave a forced laugh and turned to walk back into the Tower.

"Hey, Y/N, don't you want to go get dinner with us? I feel like I could eat a burger or 10 right now," Clint said. You felt unease as all eyes turned upon you, but hid your discomfort well. "Nah, I'm not that hungry, surprisingly. I'll just go shower, grab some chocolate milk, maybe throw on some mac n cheese. Have fun, though!" You felt bad lying to them – people who you actually considered to be friends – but you knew you wouldn't be any fun at dinner. Right now, all you wanted was to be alone in your room.

Once you were out of earshot, Tony asked the group, "Do you think she's still upset that I called her Queen of the Underworld when she showed up with her hair black last week?" "I don't think she'd let your rudeness get to her, Stark. She just looks beat," Natasha replied simply. "She looked like she got ran over by a bus," Pietro quipped. Wanda smacked him. "Pietro, be nice!"

Bruce stood up. "She just needs some space, guys. Remember, she was on her own for awhile before she came here. And she's only 21 – bit of a generation and," he looked at the twins and Thor, "culture gap here."

"But she's been with us for months, Banner," Thor said with a frown. "I wish she would come join us more outside of training. She really is quite funny."

Bruce sighed. "Just give her time. She'll get more comfortable with the whole 'big crazy family' thing eventually."

"Just like you did, huh?" Natasha said, poking his ribcage.

"She's fine, she just likes having some time to herself. Now c'mon, I really am starving," Clint said. While the conversation turned toward who was paying this time, Steve's thoughts still remained fixed on you. _"I'll talk to her after dinner, see if she's really OK,"_ he thought to himself. _"She may be smiling, but her eyes … she's in pain. She looks distant, like she's off somewhere else. Maybe she just needs someone to talk to."_

You felt the sting of your knee again as you tripped in training, the crippling waves of embarrassment that left your cheeks hot and made you want to claw out your insides as you knew everyone was watching.

"Stupid, worthless," you thought flatly before carving a neat line onto your upper thigh. You breathed out as you watched the crimson pool and trickle sideways over the soft flesh.

You felt the tears of frustration that sprang to your eyes involuntarily when Pietro danced around all of your fiercest attacks before easily knocking you down. You blinked furiously as he helped you up chuckling and even congratulated him, laughing yourself. But your throat felt tight as you thought furiously, "Don't you dare fucking cry in front of them. Stop being a baby."

 _"I'll never be as good as they are. I'm so much weaker."_

Another line, another quick stinging sensation followed by the sense of release you felt as you watched your blood flow down.

 _"That's right, get out of here."_

You felt in control, you felt distracted. Another slice. And another.

You always thought you had a handle on your depression. You had never been clinically diagnosed, fearing that others would perceive you differently or that medications would change you into someone else, but you knew you had it. So much unexplainable sadness and anger and numbness and tired, oh so tired. But over the past few years, the constancy of the feeling of spinning out drove you to self harm. It made you feel better; it was how you coped. It had been so long, you didn't really feel as if you didn't seem to know any other way for you to survive. Not cutting was foreign, an alien prospect. You found solace in your music and retreating into your own world, creating a blog for all of your musings and art that reflected your turmoil. "Van Gogh's last words were that 'the sadness will never end," you wrote on an angled picture of your scarred arm a few years back. "I think he was onto something." There were more like that scattered on your blog, fresh self harm cuts, quotes about suicide … you knew that you wouldn't actually take your own life, but sometimes it really did seem like a better option than to continue living trapped in your own head. It was just reassuring to see that others felt like you did.

 _"How does it feel when tears freeze when you cry? The blood in your veins is 20 below,_

" Ronnie Radke's voice sang passionately out of your phone. You paused it, deciding that it was time to shower and wash off the remnants of the dried blood. You took both your phone and your clothes into your adjoining bathroom, and left your laptop sitting innocently with its screen open on your desk, not realizing that you hadn't locked the door to your room – or that your friends would be returning soon from dinner.

"Where you off to, Rogers?" Clint asked as Steve took a left turn down the hall instead of his usual right.

"I want to check on Y/N. I know you guys think she's ok but I'm not so sure. I know that look she had today. She wasn't just tired, it was like she was in a different world. She seemed sad." Steve replied seriously.

Clint shrugged. "Alright, let us know if she needs anything."

Steve nodded and continued walking toward your bedroom. "Y/N?" He called out. When there was no answer, he tentatively pushed opened the already ajar door, peeking in to see if you were already asleep. He was greeted, however, with your voice singing off key in your shower. He laughed to himself, starting to turn around when he stopped abruptly at the sight of drops of blood on your hardwood floor. "What the -" Steve looked around, his gaze settling on the open laptop screen, his pulse quickening as a sickening sense of dread filled him. "Jesus Christ," he muttered quietly, sitting himself in your desk chair and scrolling through the page. Haunting song lyrics, pictures of your cuts, black and white pictures of girls crying with suicidal quotes, posts about Van Gogh "really being onto something," as you had put it … Steve couldn't believe what he was seeing. He expected something was wrong, but this, this was a whole different level of than he was prepared for.

Steve bolted upright as you emerged from the shower, your dark hair twisted up in a towel and clad in an oversized A Day to Remember tshirt and boxers. "WHAT THE FUCK?" you cried out, clasping your chest as you realized it was just Steve. "Cap," you wheezed out with a soft chuckle. "You could've knocked, buddy." He didn't laugh. "Y/N," he started. You took in his unnerved expression and you felt your heart drop with a thud in your chest as panic set in, your eyes quickly moving to your laptop that had just been closed shut. You felt as if every fiber of your being had been exposed, like you were being scrutinized under a blinding microscope. "Steve, that's just an art blog. I just go on there sometimes when I'm upset, it's nothing to worry -" "Nothing to worry about?! Y/N, that was your arm on there. Your cuts. You think you hurting yourself and wanting to kill yourself and keeping it from all of us is nothing to worry about?!"

"I'm not going to fucking kill myself!" You burst out angrily. "You don't get it because you don't feel like this, you don't know how I feel and this is exactly why I kept it from you guys because I knew you'd act like I was crazy." You felt your breathing speed up as you tried desperately to keep tears from coming out. "I'm not going to kill myself but sometimes I just need it to all stop, OK? I know I'm fucked up, I know what I do is fucked up, but it's the only time when I ever have some sort of release from all the pain and the anger and," you broke off with a shaky laugh as the tears started to come" from feeling so FUCKING upset and overwhelmed. I need this, Steve. I can't - I can't," your chest started heaving and you drew your face toward your chest, clutching at your hair with your hands.

Steve moved toward you quickly, scooping you into his arms. "Shhhh, you're gonna be OK, Sparks. But you need help. And the team needs to know."

"NO!" you screamed out. "Steve, please, I'm begging you, you guys are the only ones I have. I can't have everyone thinking I'm fucking insane please don't do this I'll stop I promise just please don't make me tell them," you choked out.

Steve cupped your face in yours. "Y/N. This is serious. They need to know. If it was one of us, you would want to help, right?" You nodded miserably. "But it's not the same," you whispered. "It's me. I'm such a fuck up." "No, you aren't. You're just in a lot of pain. It's going to be OK." Steve pressed a light kiss to your forehead. "Let's get you some help, OK?"

You sat huddled in a ball on the couch in the living room, your arms wrapped around your knees as Steve radioed the team in. "Group meeting in the living room, now. Sparks needs our help." As you heard the sound of quick footsteps moving throughout the tower, you only retreated further into yourself. "Steve, I think I'm going to honestly throw up," you muttered. "They're all going to think I'm a freak." "No, they won't. We all love you, kid. They'll just want you to feel better." You gave out a harsh laugh. "You think it's that fucking simple?" You scooched away into the farthest possible corner of the couch, tucking your head down again.

One by one the team trickled in, coming over near you. " _Prințesă,_ what's wrong?" Pietro asked rubbing your shoulder with a concerned expression. "Did she get attacked?" Natasha asked immediately. "What's going on?" Bruce inquired. Your breathing grew shallow as the barrage of voices flooded your senses, a dizzying sense of panic flew threw you as you cried out.

"STOP IT," you yelled, a quick burst of electricity emanating around your body. Everyone took three steps back. Wanda broke the silence. "Y/N, love, what is the matter? You can talk to us."

You kept your gaze locked on your knees. "Captain fucking America came into my room while I was in the shower and found out that I'm an emo self harming piece of shit," you said loudly, your voice catching as your throat tightened. "I don't know, I think I've always been depressed but it got really bad and the only way to stop it was with cutting. Now that you all know I'm a fucking mess, go ahead and kick me off the team. I don't deserve to be here with you guys" you whispered, burying your head in your arms as you cried silently.

"Y/N," you looked up to the sound of Bruce's gentle voice. "Hey," he sat down on the couch cushion next to you. "I want you to listen to me. You are not a mess, OK? You're a human being. And human beings can get mental illness, just like any other illness. Trust me, I'm a doctor," he said with a small smile. You wanted to smile back, but you just couldn't. "Look, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Depression doesn't make you weak." He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know if you know this, but I tried to kill myself a few years ago." Your eyes widened and you reached for his hand and squeezed hard. "I'm so sorry, Bruce." He continued. "But I'm here now. And are you looking at me saying I'm crazy or a fuck up?" He smiled gently and this time you managed a weak one in return, shaking your head. "Exactly. No one here is going to treat you like you're a psycho just because of this. The way your brain is making you feel. You don't have to go through this alone, Y/N."

"Y/N, you are one of the kindest, funniest and most excellent warriors I know! Just because you are sad or angry and your mind won't let you be rid of that does not make you any less wonderful," Thor said, dropping down near the couch to pat your leg."

"Yeah, Sparks. I've done the whole mind control thing. It sucks," Clint said, gaining a small, sniffly laugh from you. "I look at mental illness as something like that. Obviously, none of us want you hurting yourself, but without some sort of help to ease that, it's no wonder you went to extreme measures. Let's get you feeling better, ok?"

"You've got a green rage machine, a wannabe Daryl Dixon, a human Ken doll, twins that are basically knockoffs of Dash and Violet, a Norse god, one deadly ex-ballerina assassin who speaks LATIN and a guy who runs on a battery," Tony joked. "You're not the freak here, kiddo. But seriously, we've got your back. Banner here can even get you meds to help you shake out that fog in no time. It worked for me after I got all panicky/anxiety/PTSD about New York."

You looked up at all their faces, smiling with encouragement. They weren't looking at you like a monster. Your eyes filled with tears. "You guys are just so nice," you burst out before dissolving back into waterworks. You laughed as you felt yourself being covered in hugs from all angles and collective "awwws." You broke apart, turning to Steve.

"Sorry I was kind of a dick, Steve. I was just so scared. But thank you for helping me to face this. He pulled you into a bear hug. "That's what families are for, Y/N."

For the first time in a long time, you felt hope stir within you


End file.
